Why I Write
But don’t mistake me for a poet.
My body and mind desolate while looking away from each other
and hands seek meaning on paper
As this adrenaline rush floats away palaces above their places
I rush to find some quiet as my ink threatens to dry.
Forgive me if my tone hits like a cold glass shard; these words came from a rough early morning that started long before my eyes awoke and my bed was ready to be made.
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As I was writing these opening lines, I was reminded of how there was a time soaked in tranquillity, when I made quiet anticipation a second home and my first escape, necessarily feeling every ‘feel’ after staying there long enough. It’s an emotion that is familiar to me in a crisp white uniform; I can still feel it caressing my skin gently, taking the shape of a short skirt that sets you free and a buttoned-up shirt, but I still can’t trace back why I let go of it along the ride. Things happened, gears shifted, hands and limbs went numb while my mind lost its matter as I let the weight of baggage win.
You see, there are patterns I form with my words. Every phrase opens and closes doors, and every metaphor blows the resting dust away from buried tunnels, which show themselves in grace and poetic poise. As the Reader reads and the pigment lightens with each passing word, the vehicles carrying purpose might lose their balance, and the letters in their trunks might find the endless lines in the sky to be better roads to travel, but
Alas! It’s a ride of paper-scraped moments and memories that have been lived, and god knows, they aren’t taught to reason either.
Dear Reader, whatever thoughts you leave with, may your eyes remember to signal your brain when it spots a white canvas — not to wait in wonder but enter the world of possibility, where the self is a painter. Ask yourself the hard-hitting question, a test that you’ll write over and over again until your fingers have given up to keep count,
What are you waiting for? Grab yourself a brush and make it your sword.
